


Behind Enemy Lines

by Vermilion_Sunrise



Series: Back Against a Wall [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Behind Enemy Lines, F/M, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sex, Teasing, how to tie a big man up, indecent proposal, negotiating, she always gets her man, the negotiating power of women, unexpected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2020-09-27 02:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20400235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise
Summary: Westerosi A/U, Sansan: After the battle of the Long Night, Sansa takes fate into her own hands by proposing a traitorous union with Sandor Clegane.This story breaks from Season 8 "canon" in that Sandor does not go North to fight the army of the dead, but instead stays with the Lannisters and begins to lead an army north.





	1. Reconnaissance

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many ideas going through my head, actually I'm plagued by one that never seems to come out right. This story, in the mean time, is just to keep the brain exercised in new ideas. I hope return to some of my WIPs shortly ;-) But you also know me...I have the attention span of a goldfish!
> 
> A great thanks to Teakturn and Baileyblueroan for taking a read on this one.

#  Chapter 1: Reconnaissance 

Hiding her hands in her lap to mask her nervousness, Sansa fidgeted with skin around her nails. Outwardly, she was the portrait of calm, her eyes never straying from Lord Varys since the moment she entered the poorly lit study . The eunuch liked to build suspense. He had a flare for the dramatic, which was certainly why he was taking longer than normal to read the parchment she had given him. Her throat was dry when she swallowed, an indication that she was more than just nervous, but riddled with anticipation. 

Observing the ex-Master of Whispers unabashedly, Sansa noted that he wasn’t completely expressionless as he read the parchment--yet again. The plump eunuch wore the kind of look a cat might when it was about to pounce on a particularly tasty mouse. He was savoring it, making sure he could draw this feeling out as long as possible before having to come back to the real world. It was driving Sansa to madness, but the last thing she needed to do was show a crack in her icy exterior. 

The pressures placed upon her in the last few months had been extraordinary; it was a wonder she hadn’t buckled from the stress of it all. The preparation of Winterfell and their allies for a battle with the Night King, losing so many in the war, and picking up the pieces after. There had been many a night where she sat alone in her room fighting the tears that would inevitably come. She did not feel sad for herself, but she felt the pain of her people. Now, some would be marching with Jon, to claim a land she had little interest in. Sansa didn’t like it one bit.

Hosting the Targaryen Queen had been the icing on a particularly bitter cake. Sansa had hoped for more understanding between them, some sort of professional agreement in such difficult times. It was not to be. In the end, the famed Dragon Queen was as obsessed with the Iron Throne as all the foolhardy men before her. It was a poisoned prize, and Sansa had no intention of taking it. 

She had other things in mind.

When Varys’ violet eyes finally raised to meet her own, she could see a slight grin forming on his plump face. “It’s bold, my Lady,” he said thoughtfully, “but you must have known that before you brought this to me. So my only question is, why come to me at all?” His eyebrow lifted while he put the parchment back on the desk and waited patiently for her answer. 

It had been a great risk for her to visit him this evening, even if it was within the depths of her own castle. The Dragon Queen would march south tomorrow, taking her armies, Jon, and Lord Varys with her. Sansa had known that if she didn’t seek the eunuch out now, then she may never have a chance at the information she craved. Unfortunately she knew this game, and if you wanted to get something you needed to give something first. 

It had been a gamble, a decision she had not taken lightly.

“I value your opinion, Lord Varys,” her words came out smoothly though they were lies. She did value his opinion, but not on the document she had given him. Sansa was after information of a different sort. 

Chuckling, Varys continued. “Well, in that case--do the walls have ears?”

Sansa shook her head. She had gone to great lengths to secure the castle and keep it under her control despite the presence of the Dragon Queen. While she knew almost everything that went on, she did not need the depth of spying that Varys had implemented in King’s Landing. 

Narrowing his eyes a bit and placing his hands on the desk, he spoke, “You came here because you detected a chink in the armor, because you know things are becoming difficult with our  _ Queen _ .”

She said nothing, merely eyed the eunuch knowingly. This made him smirk, “If you do this,” he pointed to the parchment. “If you get him to hand over his armies and join the North, it will be a great victory,” he paused. “But it will also carry danger.”

Sansa leaned in and Lord Varys continued, “It will be seen as good at first; as a way to weaken the Lannisters and help our Queen gain territory.” 

He stopped then, as if trying to discern more information from Sansa’s stony exterior before he spoke again. “What neither she nor Jon will realize, at the beginning, is how strong you will become. With a man like that at your side, and the kinds of men he commands, you are certainly preparing yourself for the...inevitable.”

“I don’t know what you mean?” Sansa replied innocently.

“Let’s not play this game, my Lady. While Lord Baelish may have trained you well, he seems to have neglected the art of lying.” They stared at one another for a moment, each sizing up their opponent.

“You would not have come to me at this time of night, sharing with me a plan that could be considered treasonous, if you had not wanted something important in return.” 

Sansa said nothing, but she didn’t need to. Lord Varys was perceptive to a fault, as a good master of whispers should be. “You know the moment she takes King’s Landing, she’ll come back for the North. She’ll demand you bend the knee and when you do not, she’ll march right back to claim your homeland in blood.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Sansa said, feeding Lord Varys what he so desired.

“So what are you really here for?” His eyes were piercing, and Sansa knew there was no way to get around the elephant in the room. 

“I want to know what kind of man he is,” she said simply.

He laughed at her words, “You want me to tell you the kind of man Sandor Clegane is? Oh dear, dear.”

“As the Master of Whispers I’m sure you must have kept tabs on him during your time in the capital,” Sansa tried to keep her desires controlled, not wanting him to understand how badly she needed this information.

“I know more than I care to when it comes to some,” he was toying with her slightly. Those beady little eyes of his daring her to tip her hand. “ In the case of Sandor Clegane, however, he is exactly how you see him, Lady Sansa. A fighter, a murderer, a commander. There’s not much more to it than that.”

“And his loyalties, his habits?” she asked.

A grin spread across Vary’s face when it finally clicked what she was after. There was something in him that wanted to pull it out of her, flaunt it in her face. Sansa was not above giving him this pleasure, if that meant getting what she wanted. 

“He is loyal, it’s a trait of his house. Almost to a fault I’d say,” he smirked, dragging his words out as he did so.

“To Cersei?” She asked a little too quickly for her own liking, playing ever so slightly into the eunuch's hands.

“No,” he answered. “His true loyalties lie elsewhere.” Varys allowed those words to settle a moment. “This,” he tapped the paper, “could persuade him.”

“And his habits?” she enquired.

At this the eunuch smiled broadly. “What exactly do you mean, my Lady?”

Their eyes were locked in a standoff as Lord Varys pressed her. He would get no greater pleasure than to hear the words pass her lips.

Gathering up all of her dignity, Sansa decided to feed his desires. “Does Clegane have bastards? Does he like to whore?”

Varys grinned pompously and settled back in his chair. 

“Those things could be very useful moving forward,” she added, trying to downplay her need to know, but failing miserably.

“He whores, though not to a fault and certainly not very often,” Varys began all the while smiling to himself. “He’s picky about women, but you know as well as I the kind of woman he desires.”

Sansa felt a wave rush over her body, what did he know of her interactions with Sandor Clegane in King’s Landing? Who else knew? Her eyes must have given her nervousness away for Varys giggled in that unsettling way eunuchs often did.

“No bastards that I’m aware of, and surely we’d know of them. The seed is strong in the Cleganes and no monstrous child has graced our lands yet,” he paused a moment as if considering something devious, before addressing her again. “One would almost think you’re in this for more than survival. A woman of your status never marries for love, she marries for what she can gain. However you, my Lady, I’m not so sure.”

“The inner workings of my heart are none of your concern, my Lord. I’ve asked for your advice and gotten what I’ve come for,” she snapped.

Lord Varys kept his eyes trained on her, “My Lady, even a good dog bites when pushed in a corner. You’d do well to remember that.”

“A wolf fears no dog, my Lord. Their domestication often makes their bark worse than their bite,” she was in no mood to continue their games. If anything, Sansa wanted to move into the next part of her plan.

At this the plump man chuckled, “Oh dear. It has been so many years since you last saw him, I dare say he has no idea what’s coming for him.”

At this Sansa smiled, rolled up the paper, and turned to exit his room. She would give Varys no more of what he wanted today.

“How will you do it?” Varys called to her before she reached the door. “He’s surrounded by an army and if you were to be caught sneaking behind enemy lines, Lady Sansa, it could be very bad for you.”

At this she merely grinned to herself, knowing she had both intrigued and baffled the eunuch. “I have my ways,” she said simply, unlatching the door and stepping through. 


	2. Duped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bogged down at the Twins, Sandor makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so here we are. I hope you enjoy this little tidbit. We'll go between Sansa and Sandor in this story. 
> 
> As always, a huge thanks to Teakturn and Baileyblueroan for reading this over and giving their valuable input! Hugs all around!

#  Chapter 2: Duped

Sandor nestled into the dark corner of the commandeered inn and began his evening meal. Sandor liked the dark. There was an anonymity to it where a man could be alone even while surrounded by people. From this vantage point he could watch his men without being watched himself, and he far preferred that to being the center of attention. 

The rain hadn’t stopped for four days, leaving his army bogged down at the Twins. The Freys had been more than generous to offer their castle as accommodation, but Sandor knew what happened even if you broke bread there--and that left an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Loyalty to the Lannisters didn’t automatically mean loyalty to the Hound; though his reputation was often enough to intimidate other lords into doing his bidding. Old Walder Frey was a lying, cheating, cunt with no love for anybody but himself. This meant Sandor had refused his offer in favor of commandeering this inn for him and his officers to rest. 

It was a comfortable place, his room had a nice feather bed for one, and Sandor didn’t mind the opportunity to rest his old bones. Fighting took its toll, it always did. So he was content to drink his ale in the semi-darkness, and listen to the murmur of his soldiers while they finished their dinner. 

Sandor had heard talk amongst the lads of the Dragon Queen’s army, and had paid special attention to the reports on her dragons. He had no love of the creatures, no matter whose side they were on. He particularly hated the idea of being on the receiving end of dragon fire. 

It unsettled him.

The whole war unsettled him. 

Cersei Lannister was living a lie if she thought she could meet the Targaryen bitch in a normal battle and win. Dragons didn’t show fear like men, and if they did, those scaly buggers certainly didn’t respond to it by running away. Fear drove everything on the battlefield, anyone who said otherwise was lying. Fear of retribution, fear of losing one’s family, fear of dying--there was no such thing as courage in the Hound’s eyes. Courage was merely fear dressed up to look like an expensive whore. It was a way to create prestige out of horror--to have something for the living to celebrate. Dragons didn’t care about prestige, or their families, and probably not even their lives. They were oversized, dangerous pets in Sandor’s view. Ones he had an ever waning interest in meeting.

The stories that had been coming back from the field were enough for any common soldier to know Cersei was on borrowed time. Whole battalions burned alive, the army of the dead destroyed at Winterfell. It was enough to drive a man to become a hermit. He had considered this prospect many times since the Battle of the Blackwater. Yet Sandor continued to fight on the side of the Lannisters, not out of loyalty, but because the devil you knew was better than the one you didn’t. 

Sandor had also heard about the Dragon Queen’s time in Essos, and it hadn’t been pretty either. Much like her father, she had a ruthless side that seemed to teeter on madness. Her exploits had the feeling of tyranny passed off as liberation. The Hound spat at this thought, knowing it was a dangerous road to travel--doing one thing and making it look to the outside world as something else. As the tip of a tyrant’s spear, Sandor knew better than anybody the lengths they were willing to go to for power.

An indifference had grown within him, one that stretched just to the bounds of his own skin. Sandor didn’t have traditional reasons for living,  _ Bugger those,  _ he thought cynically. He was a man who operated on a highly evolved survival instinct. Something inside him just wouldn’t allow the Stranger to take him, and would go to any length to keep it as such.

Shaking his head, Sandor took a long gulp of ale. Anyone who wanted to take the Iron Throne had to be crazy in his estimation. They certainly lacked a certain level of survival instinct. Man or woman, the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms lived on borrowed time, and being mentally unstable didn’t help matters much.  _ If anything, it’s a fucking requirement,  _ he smirked and brought a piece of chicken to his lips.

In the current fight for Westeros, both Queens were crazy in their own right. It wasn’t that he didn’t think a woman was capable of rule. In his experience they were just as ruthless, cunning, and flawed as any man. It was the fact that  _ these _ two women were squaring off that made Sandor uneasy.  _ But at least I have status with one of them _ , he thought bitterly. In the worst case scenario Sandor knew he could make his way across the Narrow Sea, start over,  _ Perhaps even train dogs and live in peace _ . The very thought almost made him laugh outright, because it was so ridiculous. A fall back into flirting with the hermit lifestyle.  _ But who knows? _

A flagon of ale slammed down next to him on his lonely table, ripping the warrior from his thoughts. “Is this seat taken?” A woman’s voice came from behind him, with a tone he knew could only mean one thing.

Not looking up at all, Sandor rasped, “It is. Now leave the ale and get the fuck out of my sight, wench.”

This only seemed to encourage her, much to his dislike. “Mmmm, they told me you’d be surly.” Her hand went over his shoulder and down the front of his tunic before Sandor yanked it violently in front of him. Her skin became exposed from the speed of his grasp, it was white and clean-- _ Beautiful _ .  _ Certainly not the skin of a two bit whore. _

“I said, get out of my face,” he warned, not wanting his silence interrupted by anyone, especially a woman. 

“I assure you I make very good company,” she persisted, though her arm was still under his control. His grip strengthening around her thin wrist.

She was only making him more angry, because he was sure once she saw him, she’d think twice about her offer. “You so sure you want a monster, woman?” Sandor turned his head to glimpse the woman’s face, but had no such luck. It was too dark in this corner where they were, and her cowl shrouded her head almost completely, save for the end of an auburn colored braid. 

It hung slightly outside of her cowl down the front of her cloak, appealingly.

Sandor felt that pang of want in this chest, his mind racing back unbid to the Battle of the Blackwater, to a very different red-head.  _ That was many years ago, almost a lifetime. _

Quickly turning his attention back to the woman behind him, Sandor could feel his annoyance mounting. His growl didn’t shake her at all, if anything her voice got deeper and more eager. “I asked for the biggest, meanest, most battle hardened bastard here and all of those men said he was sitting right here, in this corner.”

Exhaling deeply, Sandor thought through his next move. “I’m not payin’ if that’s what you’re askin’,” he snapped, unwilling to haggle over the price of dipping his cock into a whore’s cunt. Farmer’s daughters were easier to convince and cheaper by far, sometimes even free.

Pulling her arm out of his iron grip, the woman annoyingly took the seat next to him, her face still shrouded in darkness. “If you’re good enough,” she challenged, “then I’d be happy to pay you for your troubles.”

Taking a swig of the new flagon she had put down, Sandor almost spit it out in laughter. “A whore who pays men to fuck her? Doesn’t sound like a quality whore to me.”

At that she laughed as well, and there was something oddly familiar about it. Sandor focused his eyes on the woman, despite the sudden heaviness of his lids. He could see nothing other than the gentle roll of her breast under the cloak she still wore. It was dry, which meant she’d been in the inn for a while, though she couldn’t have been staying there. He and his troops had secured this place, which made her appearance here all the stranger. 

Sandor didn’t quite know what to make of that.

Her voice was soft, “I’m a courtesan on my way to Sunspear. My job is to entertain the high lords in any way they see fit. Be it through music, scholarly debate, or sex. But you see, I tire of high lords in their silks. Their bodies either too fat or too skinny, most of them old enough to be my grandfather.” 

The woman leaned into him, her hand coming to rest on his upper thigh. “In my private life, I search for strong, rugged men with something healthy between their legs.” Seeing he wasn’t pushing her away, she leaned over to whisper in his ear, “A man who can fuck me blind is what I want. I want to scream my pleasure to the heavens and watch my skin turn pink from the effort. There’s nothing else to do in this weather anyway, is there?”

Sandor swallowed hard, feeling the blood rushing to his cock. If she was anything she was persistent, and he was almost certain she was beautiful.  _ My kind of beautiful _ . Her porcelain white skin, soft as a young deer hide. Her hair the color of the sunset. The gentle roll of a small but healthy breast, beautiful. It was not so often that a woman like that crossed his path, and even less that she wanted to sleep with him.

_ What would it hurt? _ he thought,  _ And there is nothing else to do, probably for the next few days.  _ He grinned in the candle light.

His silence seemed to be taken for acceptance, because she put her hand over his. “Come, finish your drink and I’ll take you to my room.”

Gulping down the final bit of his ale, Sandor stood up and felt woozy. He couldn’t remember how many he’d had, but not enough to feel like this. She was there to steady him though, taller than he expected, fitting neatly with her shoulder under his armpit. 

“This way, my room is in the back,” she whispered, guiding him to the servant’s area in the back. They walked through the kitchen, exited the door, and walked through the mud and the rain. In the distance, though his head was swimming, he could see a small building, a cottage. 

Something wasn’t right, but Sandor couldn’t seem to get his head to stop his feet from moving. It was as if he had no other choice but to follow this woman through the rain to the dark cabin at the edge of the property. Out of earshot and sight of his men, away from everything.  _ Fuck. _

Sandor’s legs felt weak and he swerved a bit in the mud. “Come on. We’re almost there,” the woman’s voice was so damned familiar, but everything was so jumbled in his head he could not quite place it.  _ King’s Landing? _ he wondered, his mind taking him away from the dangers his gut spoke of.

“I can’t wait to have you all to myself,” she teased, urging him further.

It was the twinge in her voice that made him realize that something was really wrong, and that this odd feeling he had was not from too much ale, but from drinking the wrong ale. Sandor tried to push her away, but only found himself falling to the ground. The water was cold, the mud thick on his trousers. 

A wave of helplessness overtook him, his body no longer his own.

“What the fuck have you done?” he said, though weaker than he would have liked. 

Sandor tried to hit out at her, balling up his fist and swinging sloppily. He missed terribly only falling chest first into the deep mud. A roar escaped his lips, but he was sure it was not loud enough for any of his men to hear. The rain struck the forest around them with such voracity, that it was nearly deafening.

His vision was swimming, everything was slowly going black.  _ I’ve been duped,  _ was the last thing he thought before the darkness overtook him.


	3. Traitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor awakes to an unexpected surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who are reading / following along.
> 
> @ the lovely ladies reading this story in advance and keeping me in line ---but hugs!

#  Chapter 3: Traitors

As he slowly opened his eyes, the first thing Sandor registered was his head; it felt like it was exploding out of his skull. His return to consciousness was a painful, wretched experience. Something akin to getting kicked by a horse after drinking yourself into a stupor. 

_ What in the bloody seven hells happened?  _ Sandor struggled to put the pieces together. Suddenly, even painfully, the events of the evening came flooding back to him. There were just flashes at first; the inn, the woman, her trickery. 

_ Where’s my sword?  _ Sandor was bound to the bloody thing. It was an extension of himself and he was loath to have it stolen from him, especially given the circumstances. 

_ It won’t take me long to track the wench on her way to Sunspear, then I’ll make her squeal. Rough up that pristine skin of hers.  _ Not one to be taken a fool, the Hound would need to make an example out of her, show that a moment of weakness could be corrected with a few well placed smacks. She had unwittingly found his soft spot. The wench was a memory of a woman he knew he could never have, but pined after like a green boy all the same. A pretty, red-headed, expensive whore was still a poor substitute for  _ her, _ but Sandor was good at using his imagination when the need took him.

Unfortunately, it seemed as though he would not be so lucky tonight. He moaned, his head still pounding. As the room came into view, Sandor felt relief knowing she had not dumped him out in a pigsty somewhere in the rain and cold. The cottage, which he found himself in, had a comfortable feather bed and a well tended fire crackled. It warmed the room against the rain and wind. By all accounts it was cozy here, especially if one were to leave out the part about how he came to be here. There was no way to know how long he’d been out, but the rain still hit the windows with force; the black of night still visible from where he lay.

Pulling his legs up, Sandor realized things were not as easy as he thought. A rope pulled at his ankles, his legs were spread such that each limb was tied firmly and neatly to the bed posts. His arms were at his sides; wrists tied to the bed frame so that he had a natural, comfortable position on the bed. For a woman who wanted to rob him, she had taken some care for his comfort. That did little to stem his rising anger.

“Fuck!” Sandor exhaled angrily, realizing that the night might not be completely over, he felt ready to kill anybody who fucked with him despite his captivity. He also felt like a bloody idiot, who probably deserved whatever happened next. Sandor pulled with his legs and arms, but knew there was little chance of getting out. Even a man of his size would need space to gather the strength to rip himself from these restraints, and the bed conveniently prevented that.

Lifting his head, Sandor took stock of his condition.  _ Well my gold and sword are fucking gone,  _ he loathed the idea of being robbed. It angered him greatly, mostly because he had been so stupid.  _ The one night I listen to my cock and this is where it gets me!  _ Sandor rolled his eyes in frustration, feeling his rage building.

He was basically naked, his small clothes barely covering what they should, even in the best of times. The bit of black cotton was low on his waist, and covered to just under his bum. The lacing was loose and only just keeping all his bits in place. He hated the long double trousers most men wore and preferred the feel of his tight leather pants on his legs.

“Ahh, I see you’re awake.” Sandor’s blood boiled, for it was the voice of the tavern wench who had so easily duped him. She was behind the headboard and he couldn’t move his head in the right position to see her face. This angered him all the more.

“What kind of sick shit are you into?” He sneered, “Untie me and give me my things. I’ll even give you a day’s head start.”

“Threatening me, even in such a state?” He could hear her chuckle softly, “Oh, I think you’d rather I be nice to you Clegane, given the predicament you currently find yourself in,” she used his name, which perked Sandor’s ears up. “The ropes are merely a formality—for now.” There was something in her voice that made it hard for Sandor to know if she meant to do it again under different circumstances or to take the restraints away. Surely she wanted to keep it ambiguous.

_ She knows who I am,  _ Sandor knew instantly this meeting had been anything but chance. His gut had, of course, been telling him that the whole time, yet he had chosen to ignore it.  _ Who did I kill? Her husband? Her son? Bloody vengeful cunt!  _ The Hound’s body count was so high, there was no telling why a woman would want to drug and torture him. All he could do was lie there helpless and know that she probably had more than one good reason to hate him.

The wench didn’t answer him immediately, taking her time to enjoy the power she had over him. He could feel his blood coursing even more through his veins. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and gravelly—a wholly unexpected tone for Sandor. “And if I may say, you look much more imposing without the burden of your clothes.”

It was an edge in her voice that gave her away, something he had known so well once, but had not heard in many years. Sandor felt his muscles tense at the thought of who it could be. _ It can’t be, not her,  _ he thought. His chest rumbled at the idea that, after all these years, they had again crossed paths--and that fate had not been responsible for it—it had been her choice.

Inhaling deeply, Sandor prepared himself for who he might see, hoping it would be anyone else but  _ her. _ When she stepped into the light, no amount of preparation could have stopped her from stealing his breath away. Sansa’s damp auburn locks flowed over her shoulders, her white tunic still wet from the rain. An underbust black corset kept her waist shapely, leading into black leather riding pants. She was no longer a girl, had clearly not been for quite some time.  _ More beautiful than ever, he thought,  _ catching himself from saying it outloud. 

His appreciation for her form and beauty didn’t quash the anger and humiliation now reaching a boiling point in his chest. 

Just the idea that he had fallen for  _ her,  _ of all women, only fueled his bellicose temperament.

“Bloody Sansa Stark,” he spat, “if you’re gonna take your revenge on me then you’d better get on with it. Never been raped before. Don’t be gentle either, girl, I’ll take none of your Mother’s mercies.”

Sandor wore a feral grin on his face, made even more so by his disfigurement. He knew what had happened to her in Winterfell; how she’d been sold off to Bolton’s sadistic bastard. As such, the words he chose had not been by accident. Sandor wanted to rile her up. It was psychological warfare now and all he needed was for her to slip up so that he could escape.

Instead, her perfect face cracked an uneven smirk at his words, “I didn’t know you had a sense of humor, Clegane. I’ll have to remember that for next time. How is that said though? You can’t rape the willing?” Her eyes traveled down to the where his cock was slowly escaping from its flimsy cloth prison. Just the thought of her naked was enough to start the rush of blood between his legs, it always had been. Before it had shamed him, now he was surprised by the heavy interest she was giving his most valued part.

“Had you wanted a peep show, girl, you had only but to ask. I guess Bolton’s bastard left you hungry for more. Believe my words when I say I’d give it to you in that little cunt of yours until you couldn’t take it anymore. Then I’d pleasure that sweet little arse until you go hoarse from the screamin’.” Sandor watched her face carefully, detecting only a quick flash of anger and outrage, before she recovered a more neutral expression. He had hit a nerve and hoped to use that to fanagle his freedom. 

What Sandor couldn’t deny was that she was different than before. He could see that in the way she moved, how she spoke, and how her eyes raked over his soldier's body with more than a passing interest. Sansa was a woman now and with that came certain desires he knew he could fulfill better than any soft cock lord in their jewels and their silks. That part of her act in the inn had not been a lie. She had certainly drawn from the possible suitors around her, young men with little experience and old men who had sworn their swords to her grandfather. It didn’t take a fool to know that, especially after the Battle of the Long Night. Sandor had already heard many harrowing tales. Many good men and lords had died. Sandor snorted, the idea of being a stud for a high-born lady not escaping his dark sense of humor.  _ It only took wiping out all the worthy suitors of the North to get me here, _ he didn’t hide his smile and was sure she was wondering what he was thinking.

If she had truly been searching for a man, Sansa had not needed to capture him by nefarious means.  _ The Little Bird stole my heart a long time ago _ . He had never forgiven her for that, for making him weak in the knees as she did. Something about her made him softer and more feeling that he was used to. Without knowing, their short time together in King’s Landing had changed him fundamentally--though he didn’t dare show it. Any point of weakness was one for the Lannisters, or his other various enemies, to exploit. 

That soft spot he had for her, however, was being tested as he lay there helpless in front of her. Sandor couldn’t let it stand. 

“Untie me,” he ordered, “and I promise we can pick-up right where we left off at the inn.” Sandor did his best to not sound too threatening, he even chuckled darkly as he said it. His looks were not in his favor when promising a woman who had tricked, drugged, and tied him up, that he wasn’t going to hurt her. With Sansa though, he knew he could never really hurt her. Even as angry as he felt, there was something in him that could do no harm to the girl.  _ If anything I’d follow through on his threat to give her a night to remember. Fill her sweet little cunt in a way it had never been before.  _ This line of thinking was not helping his cock, however, the traitorous thing growing rapidly under her stare.

She paused too long for Sandor’s liking as she considered something, then pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. “A tempting offer, but we need to talk business before pleasure. Aside from that, you haven’t instilled a sense of trust that would lead me to untie you.”

_ She’s shrewd,  _ Sandor realized. The girl she had been, was gone.  _ That’s what the real world does, kills the good in you, makes you suspicious. I wouldn’t trust me either. _

Now, Sandor couldn’t be sure who was staring back at him, with her curious blue eyes. The woman in front of him had infiltrated his camp and was holding him prisoner under the noses of his men. It was bold. Vastly different from the young girl he had known in the capitol, and yet, somehow, it had been there all along. She had just needed time to grow; to become a wolf. The mere thought of her tying him to this bed was enough to bring his erection to a nearly complete state. Its large, rounded head peeking up from beneath the waistline of his underwear--greeting the warm air of the cottage. Her eyes flickered to it and stayed a while. 

He wasn’t angry if truth be told, he was just upset that he’d been so easily outwitted by the woman he loved.

It was extremely uncomfortable to be so exposed in front of her. His cock was like a bloody weather vein, telling her the true pulsing of his heart. It would be difficult to lie to her, seeing as his most prized possession had a mind of its own. But she must have known that, for she smiled to herself in a satisfied way, as if she knew something he didn’t.

“Business?” he asked, “I’m in no position to negotiate treaties, girl. We’re not in Dorne where all their business is handled in a bloody whore house.” Sandor spat, “Take that pretty arse of yours to King’s Landing if you want that. They’ll welcome you with open arms I’m sure.” He smirked, wondering what would happen next. He couldn’t tell if she liked him or hated him; her face was a well constructed wall, only allowing certain emotions to show while shielding the rest.

“I don’t want peace, Clegane. I want you.” She waited to see if she could catch an emotion rising unbid from his face, but she could not. While he had certainly not expected that to come out of her mouth, Sandor was seasoned enough to know that he should not give away more than his cock already was.  _ Bloody bastard of a traitor! _

The Hound spat out a condescending laugh, “I’m not some fucking pet you can just take home. I’m not gonna eat out of your hand and do your bidding like a good boy.”

At that she stood and paced the room, her leather riding pants hugging that sweet arse of hers so tightly, Sandor couldn’t help but think of what it might look like without her clothing. The thought of her straddling him backwards, her hands gripping him above the knees, her backside moving back and forth over his cock while she chased her pleasure. It’d be enough to make a man go insane. 

“What does Cersei give you to inspire such loyalty? Money, lands?” It was a serious question, and Sandor was surprised the conversation would take such a turn. It was far from an interrogation for information, it confused him.

He merely stared back at her, not wanting to answer.  _ What would it matter if she knew? And why was she here to begin with? _ Perhaps his silence would get more of a rise out of her than his words.

“I asked you a question,” she rasped threateningly. 

She looked down at his cock again, now well outside of his waistband and stretching up toward his belly button, made all the harder by her harsh tones. Part of him liked her strictness, her heavy hand. Under normal circumstances a little bondage was something to be enjoyed, but this was no normal situation. As it was, part of him hated being helpless in front of her. It was the perfect mixture to make him go bloody wild on top of her. Sandor loved the tension, half the fun was the game and his little bird was playing it well. 

Sansa’s eyes flickered back to his own, “It seems you enjoy a firm word,” she took the liberty of dragging her nails up his thigh, ending at his belly button--less than an inch from the tip of his cock. “What about a gentle one?”

Leaning in, Sansa made sure her face was mere inches from his own. She smelled sweet, like she had in King’s Landing. “If you think Cersei Lannister will win this war you’re wrong. As for men in your position, the Dragon Queen is not very sympathetic to those who would fight against her, I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“I bet she loves traitors even more,” Sandor whispered almost mockingly. He knew now what she would ask him, but she was giving off two very different signals. One that told of an unbridled desire and the other that wanted something for political gain. He knew he needed to be cautious.What Sansa was doing would be considered treasonous in any court on Westeros, Sandor could smell it in the air, feel it in the mood of the room.  _ If I turn tail I would not be trusted. Yet Sansa is going against her Queen, on the side of the Targaryans but making her own dealings.  _ It was a dangerous game she was playing.

At this she chuckled, affirming that he was on the right track. Sandor saw a flush rise in her neck that he had not seen before, a further sign that he had hit the nail on the head. Affectionately, Sansa went to move some of the hair from his face, her fingers tracing over his scars. Sandor pulled his head away as best he could, he had never liked anybody to touch him there, but she persisted. 

“Do they hurt? Or is it my touch you despise so much?” She asked somewhat absentmindedly as she took in his face. 

“They don’t hurt, and you’d do well to keep your hands to yourself. Even a trained dog will bite,” Sandor warned, finding discomfort with her closeness. He didn’t know what to make of it; what she was after and that made him unwilling to play her games. Sandor had long dreamed of her touching him like this; wanked to it for certain. But in this moment, he needed to know what she was after, plain and simple.  _ No more of this bloody beating around the bush nonsense! _

“Your manhood would say otherwise,” Sansa lifted an eyebrow, rather satisfied with herself. It was a very different kind of interrogation than what he was used to. Sandor had been caught and beaten before. He was prepared for such scenarios, but  not for this. He couldn’t find  fault with her tactic though, no matter what he was saying, his cock would always be an indicator of his true feelings.

“Seems there’s more than one fucking traitor in this room,” lifting an eyebrow, Sandor could see he had driven the message home. He wasn’t about to make a deal with her before knowing what was up her sleeve. For as much as he felt for Sansa, Sandor’s survival instinct still trumped all other emotions.

“Now don’t play with me, girl. Tell it straight,” the Hound was completely calm when he spoke. His anger extinguishing, Sandor exhaled deeply. “Don’t gawk at me like I’m some piece of bloody meat. Cut me loose.”

Their eyes met, and for the first time that night, Sandor knew exactly what she was thinking.


	4. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has the task of making Sandor trust her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a crazy week. My brain is dead and with this dying breath I can put out this chapter. Enjoy! As always, Bailey and Teakturn have been so great. It's so great to have further input, it enriches the stories!

#  Chapter 4: Trust

For the first time in many years, Sansa looked deep into Sandor Clegane’s eyes. They were the color of the most brilliant anthracite, giving them a shiny appearance in the dim light of the cottage.  _ Truly beautiful, _ she thought, knowing she had met her match.  _ Had it not been these same eyes that had promised to keep me safe all those years ago? My how things have changed. _

The Hound was not crafty in the way of Lord Baelish, nor was he backstabbing like Cersei. Sansa would have been ready for that, known what to do when faced with such motivations. Sandor was different. He was his own man, interested in survival and nothing more. There would be no placating him with lands, no bribing him with frivolous things such as money.  _ It’s hard to entice a man who wants nothing.  _ Sansa knew this instinctively. She also knew that every man wanted something. If Lord Baelish had taught her anything it was that.

_ He’s right though, we’ll never get anything done this way _ .

Sansa took in Sandor’s perfect form one last time. She had not considered what years of fighting and war could do to a body, but she was certainly appreciative. Sandor was the mould that every man would want to be cut from. _He’s so strong, lean and_, she smirked, _well proportioned_ _all over._ Her eyes went again to his belly button, his manhood stretching proudly toward her, practically begging for her touch.

_ He has a feral, deadly beauty _ .  _ So different from what would be considered traditional and yet…”  _ her thoughts trailed off. 

Chuckling lightly to herself, Sansa had never intended to relieve him of his clothing. It had merely been a way of keeping him from catching his death; a result of overestimating the sleeping agent she had put in his ale. Originally she had hoped he would fall once inside the cottage, away from the view of his men. Of course this had not been her luck. He’d pushed her away and stumbled into the mud soaking himself in the cold northern rain. Her eyes flickered to where his clothing was drying carefully next to the fire. 

_ Amazing what a couple of stable hands will do for money,  _ she thought. It had been pure luck that a couple of them had been sitting in the barn, playing cards to sit out the storm. For the promise of coin they had asked no questions, simply dragged the commander of an occupying army up a huge flight of stairs and helped her undress him.  _ True patriots,  _ Sansa chuckled to herself.

_ It makes for a pleasant distraction,  _ she mused, finding it good that she had gotten a proper look at all Clegane had to offer. Her mind still playing with the idea of him agreeing to her traitorous plan. A plan that involved much more than simple formalities.

Her eyes went to the ropes holding the warrior in place. It had been many years since she had seen Clegane, or even spoken to him. Tying him up had been a measure for her own safety. 

Their last private encounter had been one she would not soon forget. He had held a blade to her throat and demanded a song, his breath smelling of alcohol, his body shaking in fear. The night of the burning of the Blackwater. She had rejected his plea to take her away from the castle. He’d slinked off, and Sansa had been sure he would turn craven and run off. Instead, he had distinguished himself in battle. Some said he fought as if he had nothing to lose. A crazy man, a man with no fear of the Stranger.

Sansa had fled the city soon after the battle, having never spoken with him again. It was a regret she carried with her, not having the opportunity to tell him why she did not go with him that night.  _ I was young, afraid, and I already had another plan in place.  _ That much he had probably already gathered, to escape the Red Keep one needed a plan and help.

The bed was pushed against the wall so that it fit in one of the corners of the room. As such, Sansa could not simply walk around and cut all his limbs free. Pulling a knife from her boot, she considered her options. Tying him up had been easier and far less exciting, as the Hound had been unconscious. Now, he was very much aware of her. As a matter of fact, his eyes had not left her since her true identity had been revealed.

_ Perhaps it’s not so silly to think I could persuade him.  _

Moving to the foot of the bed first, Sansa freed his feet. They were easily accessible, the footboard of the large feather bed was much lower than the headboard and not pressed against a wall. His hands, however, would be more difficult. Clegane was perfectly calm, but she could see how his eyes studied her every movement with the precision of a true swordsman. If he had been concerned about her nicking him by accident, he did not show it. He was the picture of calm, his breathing steady. 

Not upset that she would have to get closer to her captive, Sansa went to straddle the warrior. Crawling on the bed and throwing her right knee over his massive torso, a knowing smirk crossed his face as she did so. It seemed she was incapable of hiding her attraction to him, or the Hound had extraordinarily good senses. She suspected the latter, but there was nothing she could do to stem her feelings especially now that they were physically far too close. Sansa leaned over him so as to cut his left hand free. Her hair fell over her shoulders and pooled onto his exposed belly. She could feel a flush rise in her chest despite herself. 

Clearing her throat, Sansa moved on carefully to his right hand. 

Once free, Sansa could hear the rustle of the sheets, feel the muscles in Sandor’s abs tense. His chest rose so quickly from the bed she had naught the time to blink. Gasping in surprise, Sansa dropped her knife on the mattress as he wrapped one arm around her lower back, and dug the other into her hair. Her hands went to his able shoulders in order to stabilize herself.  _ At least I didn’t shriek like a little girl,  _ Sansa thought in relief.

It was clear by the way he gripped her, one hand spread across her hip and the other poised to control her head, that the Hound knew his way around women. The pressure of his fingertips on her bum was assertive, but teasing. His other arm snaked around her body such that he could keep her firmly in place; the palm of his meaty hand coming to rest at the back of her head. There was tension in the air, a thin line between anger and untamed sexual desire. 

The only sound Sansa could hear in the dark room was the air rushing from her lungs. A twinge of fear punctuating the overwhelming feelings of lust building within her. She fought to regain her composure, knowing that the mask of ice and indifference she usually wore would protect her. She hoped it would stop her from giving more away to the Hound than she already had.

Despite her best efforts, Sansa’s skin prickled at the thought of what he might do next, the feeling of his manhood against her leather riding pants making her core throb uncontrollably

Clegane inhaled her scent without moving, true to his namesake. It was as if he could feel the pheromones roll off of her. As if her smell was all he needed to know how badly she wanted him. The Hound smirked knowingly, “Didn’t you say business before pleasure?” he whispered into her neck almost tauntingly. She swallowed hard at his words.

He suddenly pushed her leg to the side and stood from the bed.  _ It seems I’m not the only one who likes to play games,  _ she thought. It surprised Sansa that he had not given into his baser desires, as she would not have pushed him away. She was, however, grateful for his resolve. There were many things to discuss tonight, and she had not risked her life for the frivolity of a sexual tryst. 

Sansa’s eyes moved to observe Clegane as he walked around the room. His underwear hung loose on his hips, creeping down to expose the upper cleft of his bum. He flexed his hands and moved his legs and shoulders around, regaining his balance. His muscles bulged as they slid under his skin, attentive to his every command. Sansa wondered if he was moving in such an enticing way because she was watching. She quickly shook such childish thoughts from her head. 

Stopping at a pitcher of wine, Clegane took it, then paused before pouring. “That same shite isn’t in here, is it?” he asked, a wry grin on his face as if he had enjoyed it the first time.

Sansa shook her head.  _ He’s right to be cautious. _

He drank deep and smacked his lips together as if refreshed. Walking over to his clothing Clegane felt them all to see if they were dry. Not satisfied with their state, Sansa watched him turn his massive back to her and lace his underwear properly.  _ I guess we’ll continue our conversation semi-clothed,  _ she smirked. 

After an extended silence, he spoke. “What do you want from me? It can’t just be my pretty face and the pleasure of my company.”

Sansa stood from her position on the bed, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. The Hound had always unsettled her, just not always for the same reasons. “The Battle of the Long Night…” she trailed off a moment, her voice filled with emotion she did not want to show. “We withstood the army of the dead, but only at great cost.”

Seeing that he was listening, Sansa took a moment then continued. “Many Northmen were lost, and now the Dragon Queen takes some of them, with her own Unsullied, and they march South.” She walked toward him, her eyes were pleading though she did not want them to be. “Alone, I cannot stand against her. I need you by my side. Your armies, your tactical mind...I need…”

He was uncomfortable with this line of discussion, she could see it in how he bristled at her words. “She’s a tyrant the same as your Queen,” Sansa interjected. “I have no interest in serving a tyrant, no matter what Jon says.”

“According to the law, doesn’t he have more claim to the North than any Stark alive? Bastard or not, seems our laws favor male heirs,” Sandor said. He was testing her, she could see it. He was not in the wrong to do so, it would be ludicrous to align with the wrong person.

A twinge of guilt filled her before she spoke, knowing Jon did not want this secret out. “He has more claim to the Iron Throne than he does to the North. His father is Rhegar Targaryan, his mother, my aunt.”

The Hound snorted and let out a whistle, “Well ain’t that shit.” He ran his fingers through his beard a moment and walked around the room as if he was thinking about something. “And the Dragon bitch knows this? Can’t imagine she’d be pleased.”

“She knows,” Sansa confirmed. “It could be his death warrant…”

“Shed no tears for the boy,” Sandor cut her off, noticing her voice becoming emotional. “He’s your blood, but he’s also a Targarian. And that makes him dangerous.” Their eyes met and she knew he was right. She could not save everybody and Jon was grown; she hoped he knew what he was doing. She hoped he would see his loyalty was folly, and take the crown for himself. 

Sandor crossed his arms over his chest, and cocked his head to the side. “You want me to convince my officers to switch sides?” Sansa nodded in confirmation. 

“Cersei is a bitch, but she pays, she keeps their families safe. If you ask me, it sounds like we’d only be bouncing from one crazy queen to another. The Iron Throne…”

“Is not of interest to me obviously,” Sansa cut him off harshly. “I’ve seen what it does to people, how it blinds people to their own darkness, kills them. I want only what’s mine; what rightfully belongs to me. I want to be the Queen of the North and nothing more.”

He laughed condescendingly, “No matter who wins the war now, they’ll just march back and try to take the North. Don’t count your precious Jon out of that mix either. Seems to me like we’d just be prolonging an inevitable death, not escaping it.”

“I’d rather die the Queen of the North than the servant of a tyrant.” When he shook his head and turned Sansa advanced on him, reaching out to grab Sandor’s arm. “I don’t expect you to just change sides out of the goodness of your heart.”

Sandor turned, their bodies very close. “There are many minor lordships to be given to your officers, their men can have land. We need people in the North to farm, hunt...start over. They’ll have a plot of land for their families and then some--of that you can be sure.”

He was listening, so she pressed on. “As for you. It’s not that I just want to give you a cabinet post, I want…” she found it hard to say the words, though she had practiced them many times, “...I need a man like you not just by my side, but as the Lord of Winterfell. As my consort and closest advisor.”

With that she pulled out some papers from the front of her riding pants. They had been hidden there so as to not be stolen or lost. She lifted the parchment pieces between them. Sandor’s eyes never left hers as he took the documents from her hand. He was searching her eyes for something, and Sansa was doing her best to show him what she wanted.

“And here I thought you were the romantic type,” he teased turning so he could better look at the documents. Sansa snorted in frustration at his continued japes. There was nothing romantic about being a high-born lady, she had figured that out long ago.The marriage contracts were meant to confirm her intentions, to promise him and his army land and freedom in the North. It was a pact, and alliance.

He began to read the contract in the firelight, taking some steps away from her and pacing the room. She was relieved that they were no longer so close, the surprising depth of her attraction to him was fogging her mind. She had remained firm though. She knew her plan was good if he were to simply listen.

“Who knows about this other than me?” he asked out of the blue, his tone troubled. 

“The Maester who signed it.” Sansa answered, but could not lie to him about the other. “And Lord Varys.” 

At that he rolled his eyes, “And you trust him to keep this secret?”

“I do,” she answered, her voice growing in the authoritative strength she knew she had within her, “but it doesn’t matter so much anymore. I received news from Tyrion right before I left Winterfell. Lord Varys was murdered by dragon fire. No trial, no charges, only the notion that he might have been plotting against The Dragon Queen.” Sensing his growing unease, she continued. “But he said nothing, Tyrion would have mentioned it. It went with him to the grave.”

“Good,” Sandor answered throwing the marriage contracts into the fire.

“What are you doing? Those were meant to be your insurance. My promise to follow through on my words…” Sansa lunged toward the fire in vain, completely taken aback by his actions.

Sandor approached her and threaded his fingers in her hair, bringing her face to look at his own. “Bloody things will get us both killed. Look at me,” he ordered.

She did, her hands reflexively coming to his chest. His eyes were stormy, tumultuous and full of fire--though she knew he loathed it. “There was a time when you couldn’t look upon my face, your disgust was too strong. What changed?”

It was as if she were mesmerized by him, Sansa tried to utter words but found she could not. Swallowing hard, she tried again, “I grew up.” She answered, “I realized that of all the men in my life, you were the only one that treated me with respect. And aside from that I…, I…” She could not say what she wanted to say. That she had often thought about him at night, that her body had yearned for him. That she had promised herself to seek him out if she survived the Long Night, swore never to lose him again.

She didn’t need to, he brought his lips to hers with a hunger to match her own. She sighed, her arms naturally coming around his strong body, gripping him tightly to her. 

It felt right, it was right. 

His beard rubbing against her soft face, his lips and tongue aggressively seeking her mouth. Sansa was far from the shy girl she had once been. Smirking into his lips, she moved her hand to what she wanted, bringing it over the lacing of his underwear. He was getting hard again, and it was thrilling. Sandor was grunting at her touch, his lips moving to her neck, nipping at her shoulder.  _ By the gods he’s delicious,  _ Sansa could hear herself think. To be in the arms of a proper man was indescribable, even for the bards who wrote her childhood fairytales.

A rough pounding on the door, shook them from their moment. Their eyes met and Sansa knew what to do. She moved quickly and silently to the bed, pulling her tunic over her shoulders and pulling the sheets up-- giving the appearance of nakedness. Unlacing his small clothes, so as to appear that they had been haphazardly thrown on, the Hound threw the door open.

“What?” His voice was full of anger, as if he’d been disturbed from his sexual tryst. 

Sansa’s eye was trained on the door, her hair obscuring her face. It was a page, they’d taken too much time. She breathed a sigh of relief though, fearing it would be several officers of his unit instead of the skinny lad that stood at the door. 

“You disappeared, my Lord. Heard you picked up a strumpet and moved here rather drunk. It’s near morning…it’s been a long….” the young lad wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, more just repeating what had been told to him. His fear of Sandor was palatable. 

“Save your worry for battle, boy. To think a bloody woman a threat; you gonna hold my cock next when I take a piss?” Sandor’s voice had turned to that condescending tone she knew so well. Sansa herself had been on the receiving end of his pointed tongue, but he had to allay any fears his officers might have.

The boy studdered at the door, realizing that it perhaps had been a stupid concern. Sansa moaned gently, as if to call the Hound back to bed.

“And I’m not done yet, she’s still wet and full of energy…” he rasped in his usual angry tone, threatening retribution for pulling him from what he wanted.

“A rider from King’s Landing has come, my Lord. It’s important ...I was told to ...”

She saw Sandor look back at her, then turn back to the boy and nod. “I’ll be there in a minute. Scram!” 

Once the door was shut, Sandor rested his arm on it and exhaled. Then he turned to her, “You have to leave. If I can convince my officers, how are we to do this efficiently?”

She was shocked at how simple the whole exchange had been. Sansa had convinced herself that he would push her hard, belittle her, fight against her will. The Hound had done none of those things. He had simply looked into her eyes and knew she spoke the truth.  _ Perhaps he really can smell lies. _

“Well need to make your defeat look legitimate. Meet me at the White Knife. It will get you and your armies off the King’s Road and out of the path of the dragons.” Sansa felt a thrill running through her body, excitement that her plan might actually come together.

“If I can convince them, we’ll be there,” Sandor confirmed, pulling on his damp clothing though not all that happy about it.

“And if you can’t convince them?” she asked, not hiding the worry in her voice.

“Then we’ve dug our own graves, me and my men,” he answered evenly. As if it were just standard fare for a soldier.  _ A bleak life,  _ Sansa thought.

There was a long silence as Sansa pulled her cloak on. She hoped very much nothing would come between them, but then again, many things were out of her control. Walking down the stairs of the cottage quietly they came out of the door together. The rain had stopped,  _ At least one good thing _ , she realized.

Their eyes met one last time. Sansa made a move to kiss him but Sandor’s hand stopped her, “Rule one, I never kiss a bloody whore. Don’t know where their mouth has been.” Then he grinned broadly, knowing he’d shocked her.

Sansa felt the blush rise in her cheeks. She knew naught of men’s dealings with whores, and had nearly forgotten she had played as one. Nodding so as to keep up their charade, she turned to her horse. There was much to prepare, and much to do before they could be free. She only hoped that now it would all work out.


	5. Defeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor starts his long road to Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know has been a while since I posted. Life has been crazy and work mixed with other things has made it difficult for me to find the time. Fingers crossed I can get some more chapters out in the next couple of weeks. That would really make me happy!
> 
> Next Chapter -> Sexy Time!

#  Chapter 5: Defeat

“Ohi, I bet I can get that bastard to bark like a dog!” 

“And I bet I can get him to fuck a bitch!” 

The two men fought back and forth, much to Sandor’s morbid delight. He’d not had the luck to be captured by a son of a high-born northern lord. As usual his luck always had a downside, two bloody foot soldiers with the mark of the direwolf on their tunics in this instance. 

_ Better than nothing,  _ he had thought while he surrendered to the idiots. Now Sandor was seriously regretting his decision, finding gutting them a much more enticing solution to his current problem. 

Deep down he knew it was too late to really do anything, having allowed himself to be captured purely on the basis of a promise. Words said in the dark of night from a woman who had changed so much since he had seen her last, it had been impossible to see the youthful girl he had once known.  _ A woman with a strength born of hardship,  _ Sandor had thought in the days since their meeting. 

_ Every strong woman had cowered from something at least once in her life,  _ Sandor knew this better than most.  _ That’s how mental strength comes about, right? _ Had he not once feared his brother to the point of hiding in his own home? Had he not become the towering monster of a man that he now was because of this?

No matter how big and mean he was, at this moment, Sandor was woefully at the mercy of a couple of simpletons with no more than four teeth between them. He was on is knees in the dirt. The weight of his armor feeling all the more heavy the longer he knelt by the side of the damn road. His hands were bound behind his back, a makeshift dog collar around his neck with a rope for a leash. Yes, the two cunts in front of him had found it fit to enslave him as they would his namesake. 

“Put that bloody thing down before you poke your eye out!” Sandor barked as the two men marveled at his sword. They’d probably never seen anything so shiny in all their sad little lives. The last thing he needed was a couple of idiot peasants making a muck of his most prized possession. He was bound to the bloody thing after all.

The particularly ugly one came over to Sandor and punched him in the face. Outweighing the man by at least half, and standing surely a full head and shoulders taller, the Hound didn’t even give him the dignity of making it look like it had hurt at all. “What’re ya gonna do next?” he spat, “Give me a fucking handjob? Your fist on my cheek feels like I’m being caressed by a damn woman!”

Sandor was rewarded with the butt of a spear to the back of his head, which did elicit the reaction both men wanted. “Fuck,” he spat, struggling to keep his balance on his knees. That had been painful, a lump was already forming.

If he had to endure this too much longer, he was going to rip himself from his restraints and shove one of their heads up the other’s arse. It only seemed a fitting death for a pair such as that. 

“Bark you whoreson!” Ordered the younger one, yanking on Sandor’s leash. 

Sandor was seething by this point, every muscle in his body was tense with anger and the need for revenge. Pulling his neck quickly in one direction he nearly succeeded in pulling the kid to the ground. That gave him a satisfied smile.

“You think you’re bloody funny?” Asked the ugly one. “Well I’ll show you funny…”

“No you will not,” came an all too familiar voice from behind the two men. Sandor had to merely shift his eyes to see who it was. 

Sansa had arrived on a dappled grey mare with her sworn sword and some other officers in tow.  _ Brienne of Tarth? Better a woman protecting her than some young pup _ . Sandor suppressed a grin. He was a jealous man by nature, and would not have stood for some young knight to be constantly in her presence. 

He’d lived that once before, knew the kind of torture it was to a red blooded man.

Both of Sandor’s captors were flabbergasted that they were actually in her presence; they were deciding whether they should bow or get on a knee. Confused in their own idiotic way the pair ended up doing something in the middle. Eitherway, it was clear the Lady of the North was by no means impressed.

“Get that ridiculous thing off of him this instant,” she ordered, her tone leaving no room to argue.

“But we was just…” started the ugly one.

The look Sansa gave he was priceless, as if she’d rip him limb from limb if he continued speaking. “You have both done me a great debt, and you shall get your rewards. Now he is my prisoner, and you will not touch a hair on his head.”

“Uhh…thank you m’Lady, thank you.” Both men seemed thrilled at the idea of getting some kind of reward.

Sansa turned her attention to him, her blue eyes sparkling brightly in the sunlight. When she had come to him at the Twins, she had been unsure, almost desperate. Her back had been against a wall. Sansa had been holding things from him, doing her best to remain aloof. Yet all it had taken was her kiss, the way she had quivered in his arms to make Sandor realize what her true intentions were. True, she had told him of her offer of marriage, combining their forces and their houses to rebuild her homeland. Yet, It was one thing to enter into an agreement with terms, and another to desire it so deeply that your body reacted as viscerally as hers. Those were the things you couldn’t fake and that was what had convinced him of her intentions. 

As she dismounted, Sandor couldn’t help but watch the way in which her legs moved. It made him want to be that horse, made him desire her squeezing him between her thighs just as tightly. The thump of his cock on his codpiece was even more an indication of how he felt about this moment, the moment when they would see one another after their night of negotiations at the inn. 

Walking over to where he knelt Sansa gripped him by the chin and pulled his face so that they were nearly nose to nose. Sandor looked her straight in the eye, endless blue pools staring back at him. He wished he could devine what she was thinking, knowing she was purposely holding back from him. A show for her men. The cold Lady of Winterfell staring the big bad Hound down. 

Their mouths were so close, Sandor thought for a brief moment that she would kiss him as she had in the inn. Warm, hungry, with a passion he had rarely felt from a woman.  _ A very different side to the icy Lady of Winterfell,  _ Sandor exhaled loudly.

Sansa didn’t kiss him though, pulling her head away. “We are rounding up your men as we speak. Neither you nor they shall lay claim to the North. Ever!”

A wry grin passed Sandor’s lips as her guard let out a cheer. She was quickly turning this into a Northern Freedom war, and he knew she was doing it as planned. Though, Sandor could not fight the fearful pang which rose in his chest. This feeling that maybe he has been duped a second time. The fear that everything in the inn had been a lie, a lie to get him to do as she pleased so she could reap a victory. Sandor was done with being a pawn, his value no more than that of what his sword and strategic mind could bring. Somehow it was worth the risk and the pain of her desire for him not being true.

His worries were quickly doused as she turned to her sworn sword. “Lady Brienne, you are the only one I trust to take the Hound back to Winterfell. I want him bathed and put in fresh clothing when I arrive. We have much to talk about.”

Sandor could see the disbelief cross the other woman’s face, surely it was not standard practice for the Lady of Winterfell to interrogate soldiers. He couldn’t help but look as smug as he felt in that moment.

“Yes, my lady.” The blonde warrior answered, dismounting from her horse.  _ That’s right, do what she tells you.  _ There was little doubt now that Sansa would make good on her promise. Somehow he had always known that, but he had been burned so many times by those in power, it had been hard to accept it. She intended to marry him, to be his woman and it made him feel different. 

The Lady Brienne was nearly as tall as him, her armor surely weighing almost the same. You had to have a bit of respect for a woman like that; one who would swing a sword with any sort of talent in a metal carapace weighting easily eighty pounds. His weighed one hundred, being oversized as he was. 

_ This is gonna be fun,  _ Sandor realized, rising to his knees slowly and feeling the blood rush freely into his lower legs. If he was to mount his own horse with his hands tied behind his back, it would be quite a feat. His captor’s sworn sword was clearly coming to that conclusion as well, eyeing Stranger and then the area around.

_ You’ve gotta be kidding me,  _ Sandor laughed out loud, but kept his words to himself, as the Lady Brienne scuffled down to one knee and threaded her fingers together, making a small step for him. 

Sandor lifted an eyebrow of contempt at the woman who knelt before him. Without the use of his hands to steady himself, he threatened to fall over. It wouldn’t do to bungle this infront of Sansa or anybody else for that matter. The Hound threw Brienne a threatening look, understanding that she now intended on going through with this as it was playing out. 

Reluctantly, Sandor put his right foot in her threaded fingers, then tensed his core. It wasn’t easy to swing a leg as big and iron clad as his own over a horse like Stranger. The stallion was bred for war and in no mood to stand still with foreign soldiers around him. As such he stamped his hooves nervously, giving cause for Sandor and his chivalrous lady knight to stagger slightly.

Seeing that he might fall over, Lady Brienne used one of her hands to give Sandor an extra push over. “Easy woman, I’m not a cheap tavern whore,” Sandor taunted as her hand slipped up his leg to his bum in order to get him atop his horse. The look on the female warrior’s face was priceless, this extreme distaste mixed with hatred that he would even insuenate she would touch him inappropriately. 

Sandor stole a look back at Sansa, she was watching him intently. He couldn’t wait to have her all to himself, to have nothing stand between them.

Once he was settled and Brienne had taken Stranger’s reins, Sansa turned her attention to the two men who had captured him. What they discussed though, Sandor could not say. They were quickly out of earshot. He was certain the Tarth bitch didn’t want to be stuck on this road to Winterfell any longer than he did, so she made a swift pace. 

It was unusual to hold a horse with only your legs, not having the ability to balance yourself by adjusting your shoulders comfortably. Sandor did his best to brush it off. The hardest part was almost over, Winterfell was so close he could smell it.

“I know you,” Sandor said after some time. “You’re Brienne of Tarth, Renley’s sworn sword. I guess the second time’s a charm then.” Sandor chuckled darkly at his own joke, knowing it would get to the woman.

“I advise you to be quiet,” Brienne said sharply, not even looking back. “If I remember correctly, your charge didn’t last very long either.”

At that he did laugh. Any reference to Joffry was cause for him to grin, “Can happen to the best of us. At least I wasn’t in love with the little fucker.”

At that she did turn, a sneer on her face at his self satisfied grin. “Be quiet.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Besides, it’s a long way to Winterfell. It’ll seem all the longer in silence. And seeing as I might be staying in Winterfell for a time...” Sandor was no more happy to be pulled on a horse behind Brienne as she did bringing him back North. It wasn’t hard to see from her body language and short, abrupt conversation.That didn’t mean he couldn’t get a little information out of the person closest to Sansa.

Brienne said nothing, which didn’t mean no. Sandor decided to see how much he could push her. “It must be a tough job, protecting the Lady of Winterfell. The way I hear it, neither of the queens likes her.”

She bristled at this admission, but kept her mouth shut. “They’re jealous if you ask me,” he proffered. Watching the woman’s ears perk up and hearing her snort in agreement.

“Her people love and revere her, that’s not hard to see. She’s also not hard on the eyes.” At that Lady Brienne turned to give him a threatening look.

“What? Every warm blooded man in the Seven Kingdoms knows it. She must have suitors tripping over themselves…” Of course he was digging for information. The Hound wasn’t one to walk completely blind into such a scenario. 

“The Lady Stark’s romantic life is none of your concern.” Brienne interjected. Sandor fell silent a moment, and that seemed to spur the lady knight on. “You talk as if you had a chance with her.”

_ Sansa has told her nothing,  _ that in itself was quite something. As funny as it sounded, Sandor wanted them to have secrets, needed to know he had Sansa had something special. That was why he pressed on in the most asshole way he knew. “Got a cock for one,” he answered smuggly.

He was awarded a glare of contempt from the woman fighter in front of him, at which he chuckled. “You tellin’ me that Western blood isn’t as good as Northern? That a man in his prime is worse than what the Long Night left in its wake?”

Brienne’s eyes grew wide at his words, and Sandor knew he had hit a nerve. “It’s not hard to notice, even on my side of the war. Lordlings with a screech in their voice lead armies for the North before they’ve earned it. Old men who can barely make it atop their horse do their best to combine strategies. The army of the dead struck a blow to the great houses of the North, any blind man can see that.”

“And you think you have something to offer her? Something the Lady Stark can’t find in another more appropriate match?” She stopped the horses and looked Sandor square in the eye, as if she would be able to know if he were lying or not just by examining his expression. 

“Aside from being an accomplished military leader and a respected fighter?” Sandor paused to rub it in a bit. Brienne might have been known for her fighting abilities, but if she could lead an army on the scale he could, was either not known or not talked about. He wanted to get under her skin, unsettle the woman. “No man in the Seven Kingdoms could keep her warm at night like I can. I hear the northern nights are long and hard, just like my…”

Before he could finish his sentence, Lady Brienne made his horse come to an abrupt stop, sending much of his weight forward and nearly toppling Sandor from his horse. Her face was flushed red with anger, “Another word and I’ll drag you to Winterfell behind that horse!”   
  


Whether her threat was real or not, Sandor couldn’t say. Only that she had effectively cut off any conversation between them, and any chance of him filling this long road to Winterfell with any further information gathering. The little he learned had been useful though, what he had suspected true. Sandor didn’t know whether he should be angry that he was picked out of desperation or happy that once Sansa had realized she needed a proper man, she had thought of him. 

Sandor chucked at his own self deprecating humor, knowing it would come off strange to his female captor. He didn’t care though. Out of the jaws of defeat, he was about to clench something well worth fighting for.


	6. Claim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa makes good on her promise to Sandor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my it has been so long since I published. I'm so sorry, things have been crazy! I'm happy to get this one out and I truly hope I can pick up writing more regularly again!
> 
> Hugs!!!

# Chapter 6: Claim

There was an unbearable tension building in her breast. Despite all of her efforts to remain calm, Sansa could feel it taking hold of her piece by piece. It was as if blocks of uncertainty and excitement were stacking themselves precariously upon one another--daring her stoic, emotional wall to crack and crumble. It was all she could do to focus her attention on something else. 

Adjusting a picture on the wall, rearranging the books on her desk, as well as running her fingers over Sandor’s freshly cleaned and sharpened sword did very little to abate this building tension. _ Truly a piece of art, _ she thought to herself as her flesh lingered on cold steel. It was odd to touch something that had caused so much pain and suffering, to know that a weapon could define a man so completely as it did Sandor Clegane. It would be both a reason to loathe and love him. _ But can I love a man like that? A destroyer? _

Exhaling Sansa surveyed her private rooms, the need to make sure everything was in place overwhelming her. It was stupid of course, Clegane was not the kind of man to hang on frivelous things such as decor and neatness. He was atypical of her suitors, high lords who judged you as much on your wealth and lands as they did on your looks and presentation. She had both, and something even more than that--the loyalty of her people. In many parts of Westeros most peasants could not even name the lady of the ruling house, much less tell you what she looked like. _ In that sense I too am atypical, _she smiled to herself. 

Sansa had taken steps to push herself to the forefront of life in the North, take over the position that any male heir would have. She knew this caused many to revir her, but also to mistrust her. Keenly aware of how fickle Northern houses could be, Sansa had watched their rapture and disgust with Jon’s actions. Brining a foreign fighting force into their lands, bending the knee not just to a Southerner, but to a woman who had only just set foot upon the island they called home Sansa had listened intently as the lords whispered behind his back, and knew they were unsure where his true loyalties lay. 

True, Jon had a way of attracting people to him. He could instil the desire to live, fight, and die in almost each and every man he came in contact with. That was both excellent and dangerous, particularly if you were not the one controlling him. His blind allegiance to the Dragon Queen unsettled Sansa, as well as every other Northern Lord she knew. However, she too needed to remember she was playing with fire. _ Binding myself to a southern man will be a slap in the face to the lords of this land. But if they see I want freedom? Know that I will not allow them to fall under the thumb of an outsider? _Sansa, once again, mulled these thoughts over carefully. 

Inhaling deeply Sansa did not want to betray her family, turn her back on Jon, or pull the North further into a tailspin. The Night King had taken nearly everything from her, from her people, and yet the will to survive was strong. The very thought of doing any of those things pained her nearly to the point of tears. Yet, before this night was through, Sansa knew she would have to sacrifice all of this in order to save what she loved so dearly. The thought made her stomach do flips.

Even after she had been told the truth of Jon’s birth, that had not changed the fact that he was still her brother. They were still blood. They had grown up together, bickered as children, been torn apart by politics, then reunited under harrowing circumstances. There was a history between them she could not deny, and a love for him that came only with family. _ What’s done is done, _ she reminded herself, _ but I cannot let him surrender our home. Especially not to her. _

Life for Jon had been so much easier before. Sansa could see that now, understood better why her father had persevered her mother’s resentment. Growing up a bastard had been a blessing in disguise, had made his direction clearer in a muddled world. However now there were questions as to who was in charge of the North. The eldest female child of Lord Eddard Stark? The only male child of his sister? Sansa had seen the tension between Jon and Daenyres, she knew that the revelation of his origins had made things even more complicated than they already were. 

_ You’re doing the right thing, _ she reminded herself, _ there’s no better time than now. _ They were both adults and had both made their own choices. It merely saddened Sansa that her brother had sided against her, forced her hand unintentionally. _ He underestimates me and the things I’ll do to preserve our way of life _.

Moments like these defined a ruler, all of the history, stories, and songs she had filled her head with all these years were clear on this point. It was no time to be meek, and certainly no time to back down. _ I have to be strong. To allie with Sandor will keep the North safe, will ensure its survival. _

Sansa watched the fire crackle low in the hearth. It was summer, yet the nights had a distinct chill to them. Despite its warmth, the chill that ran down her spine. _ I’m afraid, _ she realized. Afraid of messing up, of doing something that would bring her demise--the demise of her house, her lands, her people. The battle of the queens was only just starting, and now, more than ever, she needed to do the right thing at the right time. _ This is right, and it’s not bad to want him. To know you need him. _

There was a knock on the door and it startled her from her thoughts. Sansa inhaled again, steadying herself for what was to come. “Enter,” she said as even as she could given her state.

The door opened and Sandor Clegane stepped through, Lady Brienne following close behind him. He had not bothered to lace his shirt, allowing for the hair on his chest to peek tantalizingly over the top and through the lacing down its middle. The white garment was tucked into a pair of tight leather britches, leaving nothing of the size of his muscles or his manhood to the imagination. The shiver that had gone down her spine was quickly replaced with a warm flush in her chest.

Sansa felt her lips go dry when her eyes came to rest on the sizable bulge of his pants. Her mind went back to the inn near the Twins, and how she hadn’t been able to keep her eyes off of his nearly naked body. Sandor awoke carnal urges in her that she could not have understood during her time in King’s Landing. _ I was young and kept ignorant of such things. I was afraid of the feelings he stirred in me, _but Sansa wasn’t afraid of these feelings anymore. The thought made her blush demurely in his presence, though she did not want to.

Sansa’s attention shifted to his face. What struck her the most was how feral his eyes were. There was a bone chilling efficiency with which they took in their surroundings, especially her. In his eyes she could see that he was teetering on the line of chaos and order, needing only but a bit of encouragement to topple one way or the other. This made her feel vulnerable, like a small rabbit making its way through an open field, knowing a fox was lurking in the brush. It was exhilarating.

For as long as she could remember, Sansa had wanted to be the object of a fair knight’s lust. She had wanted to be bedded with an unrestrained passion that, in the mind of her younger self, had been equated with love. With time she had learned that these two concepts had almost nothing to do with one another. That you may lust after someone without having any feelings for them, and that you may love somebody without feeling what she was feeling for Sandor now. Sansa didn’t know if she could love him, or if a man like him was capable of having feelings beyond anger and rage. Yet, looking into Sandor’s eyes, she felt a glimmer of hope that maybe she could find both both of these emotions with him. 

Sandor’s lips stopped short of a smug grin, but she knew it was there. _ There’s nothing that will stop him from claiming me as his this night, and I won’t allow him any rest until he has done so many times over. _

“Thank you, Brienne. You may leave us.” Sansa knew there was a bit of haste in her voice, but she had thought of nothing else since she had left his war camp. She was eager to be alone with him, needed his strong body against hers. Nevertheless, Sansa knew her sworn sword would protest.

“My Lady, I don’t mean to be contrary, but I don’t feel comfortable leaving you in a room with...with _ him _.” Lady Brienne was right to question her, but Sansa was in no mood to entertain such protests.

Sandor snorted at Lady Brienne’s words, but never took his eyes from her. Sansa was grateful that he didn’t say anything, for she knew his dark wit was unparallelled and apt to turn this meeting into a violent one. She spoke quickly to fill the void.

“It’s alright, Brienne.” Sansa could see the protest welling up again in her Sworn Sword’s face so she continued, “I’ve known Clegane since I was a child. He is capable of many things, but he will not hurt me.” 

The room was silent, Sansa’s eyes shifted to her bodyguard so as to reassure her of the choice she had made. Lady Brienne was flabbergasted to the point where she slowly bowed and backed out of the room in a bit of a daze, much to Sansa’s relief. _ What will transpire in this room will be far from proper, _Sansa stopped short of a smile though she felt a warmth spreading in her belly.

The minute the door closed she could see Sandor’s eyes tip toward chaos. She could see them flash with an unbridled need she had not felt at the inn. Sansa swallowed, not because she was scared, but because she liked it. She was trapped in a room with a beast, with a man who was untamable. Sansa had been a good girl, had always done as her mother bid--but it had not suited her. This suited her, he suited her--and she wanted nothing more than to have him.

Sandor’s eye never went to his sword, proudly displayed on her desk. Instead he came right to her. His hand quickly lacing itself in her hair and pulling her face close to his own. Sansa didn’t gasp, nor did she struggle, she merely stared into his eyes with the rugged determination that she knew enticed him. There was a freedom that came with daring such a man to take her like the unfettered beast she knew he could be.

His nose went to her neck and he inhaled deeply, causing Sansa to moan lightly. It was such an intimate gesture, both animalistic and controlled. Her knees felt weak as Sandor’s breath slowly heated the nape of her neck, sending goosebumps down her body. Grinning, she took in his scent as well, burying her face into his broad shoulder. Sandor was both musky and spicy, the way she remembered. She nuzzled him gently, allowing herself the freedom to enjoy his presence. 

Sandor’s breath became heavier the longer he took her in. What had been shallow inhalations soon became strong, full breaths. Without warning, Sandor pushed her against the cold stone of her rooms, his hands suddenly coming to her blouse and yanking it open.Buttons flew across across the room, hitting the floor and bouncing in every direction. At that she did gasp loudly and Sandor quickly covered her mouth with his own. She was so hungry for his lips, so in need of his taste that she met his fire with that of her own. Their mouths pressed hard and without any hesitation against one another, Sansa’s hands flew to his chest, gripping his tunic so hard her knuckles were white. 

“Uhhhh,” was the only sound she made in the very brief moment their lips didn’t touch. 

There was a measured aggression to his hands as they moved quickly to pull her blouse off and discard it to the floor, coming back to her breasts and squeezing them. It amazed her how such hands were capable of both snuffing out life and making one feel so alive. 

Sandor grunted, his mouth moving down her neck. She pressed her chest toward him, feeling the stone on the back of her head as she heaved loudly, trying to press herself even closer to him. He was so warm, as if a hundred fires burned within his imposing body. She wanted him out of his clothing, needed to feel his hot flesh pressing against hers. “Sandor,” she breathed into the cold evening air. 

There was a low growl that emanated from his throat at her words. Quickly, and without warning, Sandor pulled her over his shoulder. She fought the urge to scream out in surprise and instead gasped loudly grabbing at any piece of his clothing she could steady herself with. 

The large hand he had splayed across her back was sure, his shoulder strong under her body. Before she even had the chance to question or fight, he had thrown her unceremoniously on the feather bed. In the time it took her rise up on her hands, Clegane had already taken his shirt off and he was staring at her bare chest. 

It wasn’t as if Sansa had never seen a man’s bare chest before, but his was truly something to behold. In the dim light of the inn it had not been difficult to make out his muscles, their peaks and valleys casting shadows across his toned flesh. But at this moment, in her rooms, the light was much brighter, the fire larger than their last meeting. Now Sansa could appreciate his years of war and swordsmanship in the way each muscle fiber was visible under his skin. She could appreciate the way his ribs moved when he breathed and how his abs tightened and loosened as he inhaled and exhaled. _ Gods be good, he’s even more pleasing than the Warrior himself. _

She shot him a sly grin, as her own eyes dragged down his body landing on the noticeable bulge growing in his trousers. The mere sight of it gave her a rush between her thighs, had her womb pang with delight. She lifted her arm toward him, and he eagerly crawled atop her, his lips finding hers easily. It didn’t take him long to have his hands up her skirts, his rough fingers pressing on her thighs. 

“I need you, I want you,” Sansa found her tongue moving of its own volition, her mouth forming words that fit neatly into the ear of the warrior straddling her. She tried to raise her hips to meet his huge manhood but Sandor’s hands pushed her bum back to the bed. 

“Minx,” he breathed when he realized she wore no small clothes. She chuckled at his words as his thick middle finger slipped unceremoniously inside of her. With this she responded by grinding on the length of his finger, allowing him to coax more juices from her already eager swollen pussy. 

“Tease,” she answered back, knowing her words were barely audible over their heavy gasps for breath.

Sansa didn’t have to look at his face to know he was pleased, she could feel it. His body humming with a sexual energy that she had never experienced before. She gripped Sandor roughly, pulling him close. He was moving his finger so dexterously within her, that she couldn’t help but dig her fingernails into his flesh as she panted. It was hard to concentrate, particularly after he slipped a second finger inside her aching sex and began to curl both his fingers merilessly. Her whole body was on fire.

“By the bloody gods,” she found herself screaming, her legs moving wildly. _ He’s not even inside me yet. _Sandor was pushing his fingers forcefully within her now, the sound of her juices accommodating his thick digits filling the room.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Cum on my hand. Do it!” There was something so bad in his voice, so raw that Sansa could feel her nipples getting sensitive. She could not help but give into him, there was no denying the mighty warrior what he wanted. His fingers were rubbing her in such a way that she felt she never wanted to stop. Letting go of Sandor, Sansa rest her head on the bed, arching her back even more into his unforgiving hand. 

He was staring at her so intensely, his face semi hidden behind his long dark hair. She didn’t want him to stop, but the more she fought her urge to orgasam, the more acute it became. Sansa watched his fingers moving roughly in and out of her. Her skirts were over her waist, her legs spread as widely as they could. Tears formed at the corner of her eyes, as her hips rose and fell on his hand. 

It was getting harder to breath or even concentrate on the room around her. Sansa closed her eyes while she gripped the sheets tightly in both hands. When her eyes opened again, he was over her, watching her with an aroused curiosity that made her want to beg. 

“Sandor, please...please...”

Her voice came out weak, her body focusing all of its energy on what he was doing between her legs. Lifting her body from the bed with one hand, Sansa gripped his chest hair and pulled him closer to her. “I need you inside me. Claim me...do it..I…”

She no longer had control of her voice, she no longer had control of her body. Her head came back, her body jerked and the deepest, most wanton moan she had ever made burst from her lips. Nothing else existed, nothing else mattered. Sansa knew what would come next and couldn’t help but smile, never having thought that treason could be so sweet.

  
  



	7. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor cement their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so busy these days that I really did my best to finish this chapter and get it to you. So there will probably be some typos and such--I had to weigh waiting more or just putting it out there to enjoy. So please enjoy!!!

#  Chapter 7: Surrender

The Lady of Winterfell was a shameless squirter, and surely didn’t know it. Sandor chuckled to himself lightly and sat back on his knees a moment,  _ She doesn’t even know where she is right now. _ His hand was covered in the thick juices of her arousal, the sheets beneath her bum soaked through to the feather mattress. 

Sandor’s eyes traveled from his hand back to the sated young woman still lying on the bed. Her hair was a mess, her eyes closed, her cheeks and chest flushed exertion.  _ And she’s happy _ . That was what struck him the most, what made his heart beat just a little faster. The Hound had spent a lot of time in Sansa’s presence while she was in King’s Landing, more than any red blooded man should have if truth be told. But not once had he seen her truly happy.  _ Now that’s all I want her to be. _

Unlacing his trousers and pulling them over his hips while she caught her breath, Sandor wondered what the future would hold. Against all odds they fit well together, he had felt that from the moment their lips touched at the inn, knew that she had changed in the years since they had seen one another.  _ Despite it all, she changed for the better. _

That didn’t mean that it would be enough to survive the events, and intense retribution, their union would bring upon them. Drawing the ire of two queens, having her brother, cousin or whatever the fuck he was turn against her.  _ Drawing the resentment of the Northern Lords.  _ Sansa must have known how dangerous their union was, yet she had gone through with her plans anyway.

_ Should I feel lucky? Or should I feel fear?  _ He wondered to himself. Sandor was a man who had always relied on his gut to make his decisions, never his heart. A feeling of uncertainty crept through the warrior’s body. The thought of entering into uncharted territory was both titillating and nerve racking.  _ This is likely to get us both killed _ , there was a joke in there somewhere, but Sandor couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

It was laughable to think that taking a woman to bed and making her your wife could draw such anger, yet those seemed to be the times in which they lived. Deep down Sandor was hoping this moment, this allegiance they were pledging to one another between sweat soaked sheets wouldn’t be the beginning of their end. Hanging his future on a woman and the hope of something better than what he currently had, was completely out of character for the Hound.It sounded like the thing of fairy tales. 

Fairy tales he despised.

Her playful giggle brought Sandor back to her. Sansa was eyeing him hungrily as she pushed her skirts down over her hips and discarded them over the side of the bed. He knew not the words to tell her how much he loved her, nor would he have been eager to say them even if he had known.  _ That doesn’t mean I can’t show her now, does it? _

Taking his little redhead by the chin, Sandor lifted her face so she would look at him. He saw no pity, no contempt, no fear. Only curiosity and desire flared in her fiery blue eyes. Without a word Sandor took her by the legs and pulled her such that her bum was flush with his knees, her legs spread wide on either side of him. 

_ She likes my cock _ , that much was clear by how she looked at it. Sansa hadn’t taken her eyes off it when they were last together, and the same held true now. Sandor took himself in hand and stroked his manhood slowly from base to tip. He wanted her to think about what he was going to do with it, know that he was about to bury himself shamelessly within her depths. 

“There’s no backing out now,” he breathed in the dim light of Sansa’s rooms. In all honesty, Sandor had not been sure what he had expected as a response. For her to reconsider? Or perhaps to look at him with her blue doe eyes in confusion at what he was about to do? 

The hulking warrior had certainly not expected her to lift her torso from the bed, lean forward, and take him in her mouth. He groaned deeper and more desperate than he wanted to, the sheer idea of a high-born lady doing such an act was completely foreign to him. 

Bent over his iron length, Sansa sucked on it with a gentle care that he had never felt before. It was as if she were afraid to hurt him by putting force in it, yet there was something enticing in that very apprehension. The subtle seduction of her lips and tongue on his most intimate parts were not aimed toward bringing him to an early release, but toward pleasing him. She wanted him to feel desired, to have him feel loved -- not that he needed to leave before the next customer came barging through the door. It was not something Sandor had expected, much less thought about. He brought his hand gently to her head, the Hound felt himself stroking her hair and encouraging her to take him further in her mouth. 

There was a jolt of male pride that came at the sight of how big he looked in her dainty little mouth. The way it formed a peachy O around his most valued part. Opened as wide as they could, her lips only just encapsulated the tip of his engorged manhood, and a bit further. Sandor fought the urge to thrust, though he desperately wanted her to possess every aching inch of him.

Sandor muttered encouragements as he watched her explore his cock. The young beauty of Winterfell planting kisses down his entire length. There was a certain allure to watching her look up at him with her big round eyes to see if he was enjoying it. There was an honesty to her desire to please him that was disarming to the Hound, and he was rarely one to be caught off guard. 

A part of him felt that he didn’t deserve such a woman, that he’d cursed himself to a life of misery long before this moment. Yet, part of him embraced her gentle, carefilled touches. Of course he knew she was entering into a contract with him, there was a certain transactional nature to their intimacy. At the same time, Sandor knew the difference between fucking because it was your job, and because you wanted to. There was little doubt in his mind that the Little Bird was quite happy to have him in her bed. 

She held him in her mouth, her eyes looking up at him and there was this flash of passion that was unmistakable--even for an old battered dog like him. Sandor removed his cock from her mouth and quickly replaced it with his own mouth, pressing her back against the mattress so that their bodies were flush. Sansa giggled, nipped, and played with his lips. By this point it was only logical to conclude that she was somewhat smitten with him, though he could not for the life of him understand why, nor did he care.

She had always been a creature to be cherished, even if almost every man in her life had wanted to control her. Sandor realized that all he wanted, all he needed to feed his humble ego, was to please her -- to make her feel like the queen he knew her to be. 

A chuckle escaped his lips as her hips eagerly sought his, but found little success. There were advantages to his size and strength, and one of them was keeping eager little nymphs at bay. By this point she had convinced him that she was in it for more than protection, and that was all he needed to seal the deal. No bloody contracts, no promises, just a squirming eager woman in his bed who knew a thing or two about ruling. 

Her wetness was not difficult to find, Sandor guided himself easily to her opening. He let her writhe a moment, doing her best to bring him inside of her and failing. Just as her lips were about to turn into a glorious little pout, he released his cruel hand from her hip and she pressed half his length inside of her enthusiastically. 

“Uhhhh….” that was the only sound that passed her lips as she realized he was much wider than she was ready to take. Her back arched in surprise, her hands gripped his biceps and he grinned because she felt so good. 

Lucky for her, he had a decent amount of practice coaxing his cock into narrow spaces. Sandor’s lips found her neck, his hips found a gentle rhythm and he knew he would be able to sheath himself fully in due course. Time wasn’t something he cared about now, if it took them all night then that’s what it would take. But she was warm, willing and eager to please him. He couldn’t help but look into her eyes as he pushed further, Sansa’s pupils expanding in both surprise and passion. 

Her ankles locked into the backs of his knees and Sandor knew she was determined to see it though. Sandor was sliding himself into her at a painstakingly slow pace, one that would have surely lead to his early release had he been just half an inch longer. A sense of relief filled him when he felt his cock bump gently against her womb. That meant he could stop a moment and think about containing his excitement, instead of showing himself a green boy on their first night together.

Sandor kissed his way back to her lips and took stock of the woman beneath him. She had never been filled this deep before, he knew it by the surprise and fleeting panic that crossed her face. It was as if she didn’t know if it was ok or normal for a man to be buried so far within her.  _ She’ll get used to it,  _ he grinned.

“Now I’m gonna make you moan all nice and pretty like,” he whispered in her ear, hearing her breath hitch at his threat. 

It seemed only reasonable to start with a long slow grind, something that would make her grip him even harder. Sansa exhaled into his shoulder, pressing her cheek tight against him as he took her. She wasn’t feeling pain, of that Sandor was certain, but it seemed she wasn’t sure what to do with the feelings of pleasure his cock was producing. Her cunt gripped him tightly, making every thrust of his manhood moan worthy. Soon she seemed to understand that if she surrendered herself to him completely, that he would do what she needed.

It didn’t take long to find a cadence she seemed more partial to. Sandor knew women were notoriously difficult, often requiring complicated mixtures of thrusting, grinding, speed, and rhythm until they found their release. He also knew they had phases of arousal, and that what might work at the beginning might not be right to make them cum. Even more so, he knew how to stretch a plateau out, make her last longer than she thought she could. That was where he found himself now, watching the color rise in Sansa’s cheeks, seeing her eyes roll back in her head as she felt every inch of his cock. 

One could have said he’d waited a long time for this, but if you waited for something that meant implicitly that you expected it to actually happen. Sandor had never expected this to happen, it had been the most fleeting thing from his mind all of these years -- until she had popped up in his life again. Their paths had crossed for a reason, he knew that, but even then this moment had been the furthest from his mind. There was an art to fitting together, to having a kind of chemistry that superseded the physical lust you might feel for a person. Sandor knew they were well on their way, that they had been made for one another without really knowing why.

She was writing on his iron length, trying to cum before he was ready to let her. Sandor managed a sly grin as he enjoyed the motion of her breasts bouncing to his well timed thrusts. Her hands were gripping wildly for anything that would hold her. 

There was no way he would be able to go on forever, she was far too delicious. As her pussy began to spasm around him, Sandor knew he’d found the right time to drive it home. That she was ready to see stars. Slowing down his frenzied pace, he removed his entire length from her aching center. When she breathed again, he slowly slid his manhood within her again all the way to its base. The lack of him, measured against having him fully was what pushed her over the edge. 

Her pleasure filled screams entered the room, muddled together with his own deep moans of ecstasy, his balls tightening up to his body. Sandor was eager to fill her with his seed, knowing that no one would put their union into question from now on. He allowed it to flow, enjoying the contractions that both satisfied and emptied him.

When he did finally finish, Sandor made a move to roll off of her. Sansa’s hips, however, followed his own, not wanting to decouple before the moment was over. He pulled her thigh over his to ensure they were still together. Her shudders of enjoyment mixed with his heavy breathing were the only sounds in the room.

This was good, this was right, this was everything he had hoped for and more. For the first time in a long while Sandor felt himself relax, found himself lost in the feeling of her skin beneath his fingers and her gentle breath on his neck. 

_ Nothing lasts forever,  _ said the little voice in the back of Sandor’s mind. That was true, but Sandor couldn’t push the thought from his mind that this little moment of perfection was well worth fighting for. More than for the promise of gold, riches, and some sort of title; more than for a homeland he barely knew. It was the first time in his life that Sandor realized life, death, lands, gold, titles all these things only had a value when you could hold your future in your arms, as he was doing right now.

He exhaled audibly, and Sansa took that moment to snuggle even closer to him. Her hand was idoly stroking his chest when they heard a knock on the door. She snorted with annoyance into his chest without even opening her eyes, then managed the words, “Enter.”

Sandor looked over at the door, it was her Maester who entered, rolls of parchment in his arms. The look the old man shot the two of them was not one of happiness, nor was it of contempt, but something in the middle. Sandor wasn’t really sure what kind of look to expect, but he knew he was still the enemy here, even if the Lady of Winterfell had seen him fit to share her bed. 

“Give me a moment,” Sansa whispered, reaching for her robe near the side of the bed and slipping it on. 

Sandor watched as she tied the sash quickly around her waist and walked barefooted to the Maester, who was waiting patiently at her desk. “I take it there’s news.” She said cryptically, looking through the rolls of parchment the older man had for her.

“Yes,” the older man answered, “Cersei has pulled back her troops and it seems that she has decided to wage battle in King’s Landing itself.”

“She’ll hold the entire city hostage to appeal to Daenerys’ morality?” Sansa snorted as she asked the question rhetorically, “Won’t she be in for a surprise.”

“Don’t let Cersei fool you, the city is well protected both from land and sea. She’s been producing more of this weapon of hers, so she can poach the dragons from the air,” Sandor added, having fluffed up some pillows under his back and pulled the furs to his waist. 

“And you think she’ll be successful in staving off an attack of dragon fire?” The Maester asked him with apprehension.

“Didn’t say she’d be successful,” Sandor answered, “Just that she thinks she will be. As far as I see it, King’s Landing might be one big tomb by the time it’s all said and done. It seems as though neither queen is willing to surrender to the other.”

Sansa nodded in agreement with this, “That means we tell them nothing of the defenses at King’s Landing. Cersei I can predict, the Dragon Queen I cannot. Send a raven to the front lines, tell them we’ve captured the Hound’s army and are working toward gathering any information we can.” 

Sansa’s eye strayed to Sandor as she spoke, “In the meantime, release Clegane’s officers. There are empty castles here,” she pointed to a large map on the table, “here and here. We will never fill them, and perhaps a minor lordship will go a long way in rebuilding what we’ve lost.”

Sandor could see the Maester wasn’t thrilled by the idea, but also saw the sense in it. The battle with the Night King had wiped out everything north of Winterfell. There were almost no peasants to work the land, and certainly no lords to manage them. The vastness of her territory meant that repopulating it would be near to impossible without help, his army would be the basis. They would bring their families with them for a house and a plot of land. Those who didn’t have wives would find a good northern girl and live out their lives in peace. It wasn’t a stupid idea, but one Sandor knew would be questioned by the Northern Lords.

“And what of the Northern Lords?” Her Maester asked perceptively. 

The Lady of Winterfell paused a moment, “They too have no idea what is to be done with this land, and cannot hope to take on more than what they already have.” When the Maester’s eyes traveled to Sandor, lounging in his post coitus pleasure in her bed, Sandor could see her eyes narrow, “Once Jon and Daenerys have engaged Cersei’s forces in King’s Landing, send the Lords an invitation to my wedding. Should they protest, tell them that nothing would please me more than to watch them meet the Hound in single combat for my heart.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence, one punctuated by Sandor’s self-satisfied snort of approval. “The young lords will mess their pants at the mere sight of him, and the older ones…”Sansa stopped a moment, her eye lingering on the Hound’s well sculpted chest, “...will not be able to match his prowess on the battlefield. Of that I am sure.”

The double meeting of her words didn’t go unnoticed by the Maester, who eyed Sandor critically a moment before reluctantly agreeing with her assessment. 

“If they do question my choice, tell them I’ve added an army to our ranks and seen to it that we repopulate the land south of the wall. We’ll be prosperous again, perhaps even faster than we expected. The fact that he’s southern should not be a barrier, as a matter of fact we should begin to mend our relations...once the War of the Queens is over that is.” There was a long pause and Sansa dismissed the Maester. 

Turning back to the bed, Sansa made her way whilst tying her robe and allowing it to fall to her feet. Sandor knew he’d never get tired of her perky little breasts and her womanly hips. It was hard to take his eyes off of her, even for a second.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” Sansa said, speaking of the Maester, “Since my father’s murder, there has been no love of southerners in my lands. It will take them time to understand that we must work together if we want to survive.”

Sansa slid under the covers and stradled Sandor. There was a natural ease with which she began to fondle him absentmindedly, clearly enjoying the feeling of watching him slowly harden in her hands. 

“How do you think this is going to end? You seem to know both of them better than anybody else.” He asked, his hands behind his head.

Massaging his erection thoughtfully, she took her time in responding. “I wish it would simply end in the North as its own country and to have them figure out their squabbles without any further damage to us. But I know that won’t be possible. Cersei wants to prove everybody wrong, feels she needs to show she deserves to sit on the Iron Throne. While Daenerys feels an entitlement that overrides any logical thought.”

Sandor nodded, concentrating as best he could on their discussion while enjoying the sight of her hands moving up and down his length. “I fear for Jon if truth be told. He’s too innocent for this world, power does not suit him and yet he is continually thrust into a position of power. I dare say you are right, King’s Landing will be a tomb, I can’t see anything more than death and ashes there.”

There was a sadness to her voice. She knew she was helpless to change what was going on, no matter how much she wanted to for the ones she loved. It was admirable, but the boy had chosen his side just as she had chosen hers. Sandor took her arms and guided her such that her hands were on the pillows behind him, her womanhood teasing the tip of his aroused length. They kissed passionately, her arms wrapping around his head and his around her body. Sandor liked the feeling of her lips, so warm and soft. She sat back on his cock, and he loved the feeling of being inside her too.

“Let’s not worry about tomorrow,” he urged her, seeing she was on the verge of tears. “Let’s be selfish for now and see what the fates make of it.” 

A man like him never spoke of such nonsense, but in some way love was also nonsense. A series of chemical reactions in the brain and loins that crept into your soul and took hold, making you do and say things that were completely out of character. Yet Sandor could not remember a moment when he had been so hopeful, so curious to see what the future had in store. So he surrendered to it. Surrendered to a feeling he had only ever read about in stories or heard about in song. 

He gave in because he found himself happily a servant and protector of Sansa’s heart.


	8. Epilogue:  The Queen in the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa returns from the South.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a really busy time for me. Work has been crazy, my husband and I have been so busy, then I was sick for a while....writing hasn't been at the forefront of my mind. I hope that calms down and changes for the next little bit. So sorry I've been so absent. 
> 
> This chapter was basically finished so I wanted to send it out. I hope to write on a few more stories in the coming days and update things. Cheers!!!

#  Epilogue: The Queen in the North

Three Months Later

The sound of steel on steel rang through the practice yard. Sandor watched with interest as two young northmen squared off, doing their best to implement what he had taught them. The Hound had never fancied himself a teacher, or someone with the patience to pass on what he had learned through hard work, sweat, and blind fear. Yet Sansa had seen something in him he had not seen in himself. She put him in charge of training up her armies and named him Lord Protector of the North in her absence. 

It had been an uneasy set of responsibilities at first, particularly given that Sandor’s origins meant something to those around him. Surprisingly the other commanders had warmed up to him rather quickly, particularly as he had kicked each one of their scrawny asses in single combat. The Hound might have been old by warrior standards, but he was still in his prime, able to enjoy what his experience in battle had taught him.

Sandor peered into the sky at a small sliver of light coming through the clouds. Sansa had left for King’s Landing nearly four weeks ago on the request of Tyrion Lannister. There was to be a counsel meeting where they would deal with an “ever evolving situation” as the Imp had put it. Sandor snorted at the thought, hating the cryptic nature of politics more than most things. The situation of which he spoke had been the aftermath of the Battle of the Queens. An almost total loss of life from what Sandor had heard, though he found it difficult to believe. 

There had been reluctance on Sandor’s side to allow her to go South without him, partially because he trusted no one other than himself to keep her safe, and partially because she’d crept into his heart deep enough that she was more like a drug to him than anything. Sandor sighed thinking about how much she had changed him in such a short time together,  _ A sign of age,  _ he told himself, cracking a grin as the two young men sparring blocked and attacked each other in turn. 

He might be considered old by some, Sandor knew that. Particularly when Sansa was on his arm it was not difficult to spot that he had quite a few years on her. It mattered little to him though, more made him grin when he got jealous looks from other younger, more comely men. If there was one thing he could say it was that his experience, accumulated over many years of war and fighting had prepared Sandor for what North was about to experience after the battle of the Queens. 

What had started as a trickle of refugees taking the King’s Road north, had quickly turned into a full blown migration of displaced people. Sandor and the Northern Lords had quickly set up checkpoints, ensuring that those fleeing war were not war criminals themselves. It was funny to think that he could have very well been on the other side of this situation. Dead or fleeing a ruined city.  _ How crazy this life is,  _ he thought to himself as the true price of war made itself apparent. The influx of sick, starving, injured, and burned people was astonishing even for somebody as battle hardened as Sandor. Not that the north didn’t need people, the battle with the Night King had rendered many farms unusable given the lack of manpower. So these people coming from the south were more welcome than they realized. 

His lady love had sent him letters of course, saying so much and yet not enough for him to understand what was happening. They were holding a trial as it were, all the major Houses of the Seven Kingdoms weighing in on what to do. It seemed both the Dragon Queen and the Lion Queen were dead, but the circumstances were not described. Sansa wrote about the devastation of the capital city and the pain she felt for the people. She had also written that she would be home with good news soon.

That had been some time ago, and Sandor couldn’t help but wonder if all was well. She was two days late. Sandor knew better than most that even in peace bad things could happen on the roads. He had done his best to remain calm, not run out like some love sick maniac to try to find her. Yet he had to admit that his resolve was waning. 

“Not like that,” Sandor interrupted the sparring match, “you’re hitting his sword with the limpest wrist I’ve ever bloody seen.” Sandor took the sword his young pupil was holding, “Swordsmanship isn’t just in the arms and hands, it's in the core and the legs. If I push with my back leg and move my hips like this, you see how much more power I have? If I bend at the wrist, I lose it all. Every link in the chain must be strong.”

The boy nodded. “Then get back to it!” Sandor grumbled in his trademark grumpy way.

It was then that Sandor heard the tower bells toll. He looked over at his second in command to confirm he’d heard correctly,  _ Friendly soldiers approaching. _

Turning away from the practice yard, Sandor bolted up to the tower, snatching the spyglass away from the look out so he too could look on the horizon. He breathed a sigh of relief, seeing Sansa at the front. Her hair whipping wildly in the wind, her cheeks kissed by the sun. Running back down to the courtyard, Sandor gave the order for everybody to prepare themselves for her arrival. 

All those in Sansa’s service lined up in the courtyard of Winterfell, keen to glimpse their Lady upon her return from the South. Sandor hadn’t even had time to wipe the dirt off his face, or change his clothes from a day’s worth of training. He didn’t care, his wife was coming home. He would be whole once more.

Her captain road through the castle walls in front of her, his voice ringing through the courtyard, “All hail the Queen of the North!”

There was a cheer that erupted from the Northmen, Sansa’s smile radiating from her weather worn cheeks. She stopped her mare in front of Sandor and grinned. Kicking one leg over the head of her horse, Sandor reached up to take her off. Her feet had barely touched the ground before she kissed him. It was unusual to do such things in public, for a queen to show such emotion. But she didn’t seem to care, and neither did he.

“We have much to celebrate,” Sansa declared, much to the excitement of those around them. “Tomorrow there will be a coronation, but for now I must rest.” 

She squeezed Sandor’s hand, whispered some things to the Maester and led him to the castle. They said nothing while they made their way through its twisting halls and winding stairs. What started as a walk became a trot, then quickly a run. Sandor quickly threw open the door to their rooms and could barely get the door shut as she pounced on him. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her lips met his and it was all he could do to get her to their bed. 

They had missed one another, that much was clear. Neither one of them cared for the dirt and the grit of the other. Their kisses were sloppy, their coupling rough and hurried. In, what he would have considered an embarrassing display, Sandor spilled his seed much faster than anticipated. Yet she seemed to really like it, lifting a critical eyebrow and moaning all the more as his cock refused to go down.

Sandor found himself taking her from behind as if he were in some daze. Sansa’s belly was on the mattress and his hips smacking into her sweet rounded ass, surely still sore from her ride. Sandor’s hand snaked around her body, holding up her neck so she could twist it toward him to kiss him. He couldn't remember how they got there, only that her cries for more were met by the thrust of his hips. 

Redness flooded her cheeks, her body quivered the more hectic his movements came, and Sandor knew she was close. He wanted to draw it out, but she seemed to want to have it immediately--and this turned him on all the more. Sansa’s knuckles were turning white, her breath was hitching, her cunt pulsing. “Sandor….yes, yes, yeeessssss!” 

He could only see half of her smile, Sansa’s left cheek laying on the sheets, her right cheek up to the ceiling, but he knew she was happy, sated. Sandor missed the sex of course, but he missed this moment even more. Watching her strain against his body, listening to her scream her pleasure, feeling her snuggled up tightly in the crook of his arm. He missed their intimacy and the sounds of her breath in his ear. 

They were both breathing hard, both spent from their intense, yet short lived, seuxal contact. “Mmmmm….” Sansa snuggled into his body, throwing one leg over his own. They stayed there a long while, not speaking, just breathing and enjoying the fulfilment that having sex with the person you love can bring you.

When she did finally break the silence, her voice was low, different. “I never saw anything like it,” she started, “the whole city is destroyed. There’s not a building standing, save the bell tower. The stench of charred remains and rats are all that’s left.” 

Sandor could feel hot tears on his neck, knew her fingers were digging into his chest hair for comfort. He said nothing, merely held her close. What could he say? That he would have pissed himself and run off? That he would have had to stare at one of his biggest fears in the face had he been there. Perhaps it was good he had stayed in the North, away from the horrors of the capital city.

“It could have been us Sandor, to think if Jon hadn’t acted, if he…” she was looking at him now, her large blue eyes searching for him to tell her it was all ok. 

“But we’re here, and they are not. We gambled and won,” Sandor moved her tears from her cheeks with his thumb. 

Sniffling, she nodded and their lips met. They were soft, sweet, just as luscious as ever and he almost felt like crying too. Both of them catching themselves, she could only smile at him. Then her expression sullened, “I did what I could for Jon. I argued on his behalf, pleading for his release. I still can’t believe he killed her, Sandor. I’m grateful but, I know him,. I know how sensitive he can be, and how he must have loved her.”

“Shusss…” Sandor pulled her close. “He did us a favor, and asked you for nothing in return. You did what you could. . .”

“I had him sent to the wall,” Sansa interjected, tears bursting from her eyes once more.

“You gave him a choice,” Sandor replied. “You treated him better than anyone. You’ll be a good queen, an amazing one, a fair one. One who loves her people.”

They were sitting up in the bed, and Sansa held him tight, hugging him close to her. They stayed that way for a while and when she sat back, her tears were gone, a beautiful smile in its place. “We’ll build something beautiful here, I know we will.”

Sandor rolled on top of her, seeing this as his moment to make love a second time to his wife that afternoon, but he would not be so lucky. Soon her handmaidens came in, dragging a tub and buckets of water. His eye’s met Sansa’s and they shared a smile. Sandor knew, despite all of the pain she had suffered, that Sansa was where she was always meant to be. Hardship, strength, and fairness would define her and with it, a prosperity that the North had never known. From this day forth there would be only one queen, and that would be the Queen in the North whose name is Stark.


End file.
